2/99 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


9i  < 

t-v      &**  ,^ 


POEMS, 


GILBEET  COOKE  LANE,  A.  M., 


WITH   A 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 


REV.    BEENICE   IX    AMES,  A.M. 


BURLINGTON : 

PRINTED   BY   DANFORTH   &    BMALLET. 
1860. 


PS 

ai 

L24IAH 


PKEFACE. 


As  a  slight  memorial  of  the  lamented  author,  this  small 
•collection  of  poems  is  printed  by  his  Classmates.  His  prose 
writings  were  far  more  numerous  than  his  poems,  and  per 
haps  more  meritorious  than  any,  except  the  first  two  or 
three  in  this  collection,  which  alone  were  written  after  his 
style  had  been  modeled  by  a  classical  education.  Yet  the 
poems  have  been  preferred  as  better  suited  to  the  design  of 
this  publication.  Doubtless  his  Notes  on  Herodotus,  when 
published,  will  constitute  the  fittest  monument  to  his  class 
ical  taste  and  skill. 

President  Labaree's  noble  tribute  to  his  memory  well  de 
serves  an  introductory  place  in  this  collection.  The  bio 
graphical  sketch  by  Mr.  James,  derives  a  melancholy  in 
terest  from  the  fact  that  he  so  soon  followed  his  most  inti 
mate  College  friend  and  room-mate  to  the  spirit  land.  He 
died  of  Yellow  Fever,  February  17th,  1860,  at  Bahia,  Bra 
zil.  Hence  this  little  book  will  be,  in  some  sense,  a  me 
morial  of  two  of  the  most  gifted  and  promising  members  of 
±he  class  of  1853,  instead  of  one,  as  at  first  intended. 


.1. 034508 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH, 5 

EULOGY, 11 

THE  JOY  OP  GRIEF, 13 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  ASSOCIATION, 19 

THE  ERLKING, 23 

A  DAY  OF  LEISURE, 24 

THE  VIOLET  BLUE, 26 

SPRING, 2 1 

THE  Two  RAIN  DROPS, 30 

SONG, 32 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


BY    HENRY   JAMES,    A.    M. 


GILBERT  OOOKE  LANE  was  born  in  Weybridge,  Vt.,  March 
18th,  1828.  At  the  age  of  six  he  removed,  with  his  parents, 
to  Cornwall,  where,  with  occasional  interruptions,  he  resided 
until  his  death.  From  infancy  he  was  a  stranger  to  health. 
The  usual  recreations  of  children  were  more  than  his  feeble 
frame  could  endure.  His  difficulties  arose  not  from  any  par 
ticular  form  of  disease,  but  from  a  general  debility  of  the  sys 
tem.  Yet  amid  this  physical  prostration,  which  was  uninter 
rupted,  his  mental  powers  began  to  unfold  with  unusual 
vigor  and  rapidity.  In  consequence  of  his  slender  health, 
he  attended  the  common  school  but  little  previous  to  his 
twelfth  year,  and  none  at  all  after  that  age.  From  twelve 
to  seventeen  his  general  debility  prevented  his  attendance 
upon  any  public  instruction.  Buthis  mind  was  perpetually 
active — perpetually  at  work.  He  devoured  everything  in 
Literature,  History,  Biography,  Philosophy,  Poetry, — and 
the  nobler  works  of  fiction  were  drained  of  their  richest 
treasures,  and  assimilated  to  his  mental  nature. 


At  length,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  his  health  improved, 
so  that  he  was  able  to  attend  a  select  school  in  Cornwall 
for  a  single  term,  during  which  he  commenced  Latin,  and 
the  higher  mathematics.  Then  followed  another  period  of 
illness.  At  eighteen  years  of  age  he  attended  at  Newton 
Academy,  in  Shoreham,  for  a  single  term.  After  this  he 
was  confined  at  home  for  three  entire  years,  during  which 
his  debility  was  extreme.  For  weeks  in  succession  he  was 
affected  with  a  blinding  headache.  A  walk  of  a  few  rods, 
or  the  slightest  bodily  effort,  was  sufficient  to  exhaust  him. 
Yet,  under  all  these  discouraging  circumstances,  his  pro 
gress  in  knowledge  was  not  interrupted.  His  mind  was 
constantly  at  work  upon  the  advanced  mathematics  and  the 
difficult  themes  of  the  mental  and  speculative  sciences. 

Again,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  his  system  rallied.  In 
February,  1849,  he  entered  Castleton  Seminary,  where  he 
first  formed  the  purpose  of  acquiring  a  liberal  education. 
At  the  Seminary  he  seemed  to  experience  no  disadvantage 
from  his  previous  lack  of  school  privileges,  but  speedily 
took  position  among  the  first  scholars  of  the  institution, 
winning  the  regards  of  every  one  by  the  modesty  of  his 
deportment,  and  surprising  his  instructors  by  the  ease  with 
which  he  mastered  every  department  of  knowledge. 

In  the  spring  of  1850,  he  entered  Middlebury  College, 
commencing  with  the  second  term  of  the  Freshman  year. 
He  immediately  took  position  as  a  scholar  at  the  head  of  his 
•class — a  place  which  he  maintained  during  the  entire  course. 
These  were  his  golden  years.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  his 
health  was  good.  Strangely  little  respite  from  his  studies 
did  he  seem  to  require.  His  relaxation  was  not  in  the  usual 
pastimes  of  his  companions,  but  rather  in  turning  from  one 
department  of  knowledge  to  another.  Thus  did  he  occupy 
his  waking  hours,  and,  by  exercising  the  different  faculties 


of  his  mind  upon  their  appropriate  objects,  he  kept  them 
all  unwearied  and  in  progress. 

In  the  recitation  room  he  was  marvelously  exact.  An 
error  or  inaccuracy  in  a  class  exercise  was  rare  with  him. 
Order,  system,  thoroughness  and  punctuality,  seemed  parts 
of  his  very  nature.  His  waking  hours  were  carefully  ap 
propriated,  and  strong  indeed  was  the  reason  that  led  him 
to  infringe  upon  them.  Every  movement  seemed  part  of 
a  system.  He  gave  his  whole  earnest  attention  to  what 
ever  he  undertook.  The  duty  on  hand  was  the  one  that  ab 
sorbed  his  thoughts — none  other  might  interfere.  He  seldom 
lost  sight  of  a  design  once  carefully  formed.  It  might  be 
delayed.  Sickness  might  intervene.  Long  months  of  toil 
might  stand  in  the  way.  But,  in  the  end,  it  was  sure  to 
be  accomplished.  Strangely  at  variance  with  the  frailty 
and  utter  weakness  of  his  physical  system,  were  the  mental 
energy  and  power  that  he  brought  to  bear  upon  every  object 
of  his  thoughts. 

With  so  much  to  discourage  and  weigh  him  down,  he 
never  yielded  to  despondency — never  indulged  in  regrets — 
never  wished  that  this  or  that  event  of  providence  had  been 
different.  Confined  at  home  by  long  and  often  painful  de 
bility — obliged  to  forego  his  dearest  pursuits,  his  most 
cherished  plans,  never  did  a  cloud  of  discontent  or  shade  of 
uneasiness  pass  over  him  ;  nay,  not  even  an  expressed  wish 
that  his  condition  were  in  any  wise  different. 

Soon  after  entering  college,  his  attention  was  called  to  his 
spiritual  interests.  His  heart  took  hold  of  the  subject  with 
all  the  deep  earnestness  of  his  nature.  In  a  few  days  he 
was  brought  to  bow  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross.  Ever  after 
ward  he  showed  himself  a  humble,  devoted  follower  of 
Christ,  willing  to  acknowledge  him  before  men,  and  exhibit 
ing  a  Christian  character,  uniform,  earnest,  and  full  of  hope 
and  trust  in  God's  promises.  His  whole  character  and  con- 


duct  spoke  his  deepest  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  God, 
and  his  assurance  that  He  would  do  all  things  well. 

Again,  during  his  last  term  in  College,  his  health  gave 
way,  and,  in  October,  1853,  three  months  after  graduating, 
he  started  for  the  South,  hoping  that  a  warmer  climate 
might  benefit  him.  For  a  year  he  taught  a  public  school  at 
Lowndsville,  S.  C.  In  February,  1855,  he  entered  the  The 
ological  Seminary  at  Columbia,  in  that  State,  where  he  re 
mained  but  a  single  term.  He  then  returned  to  Vermont, 
but  with  health  unimproved.  In  August,  1856,  he  was 
elected  tutor  in  Middlebury  College.  He  discharged  the 
duties  of  this  position  for  two  terms  only,  when  he  was 
brought  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grave  by  an  attack  of  bil 
ious  fever.  This  left  him  with  a  slight  affection  of  the  lungs, 
from  which  he  never  recovered.  Hoping  that  out-door  exer 
cise  would  be  of  some  service  to  him,  he  now  undertook  a 
traveling  agency  for  the  sale  of  books,  which  occupation  he 
followed  four  or  five  months.  But  the  exercise  and  expo 
sure  proving  too  severe  for  him,  he  returned  home  in  Octo 
ber,  185T,  exhausted  by  his  labors,  and  with  a  fatal  disease 
of  the  lungs. 

But,  undismayed  by  these  discouraging  circumstances, 
he,  in  accordance  with  a  long  meditated  design,  immediately 
commenced  writing  a  Commentary  upon  the  Greek  History 
of  Herodotus, — a  work  requiring  many  months  of  patient, 
laborious  effort,  and  classical  learning  of  a  high  order. 
With  intellect  undimmed,  did  he  devote  the  last  year  of  his 
life  to  this  undertaking, — working  at  it  all  that  his  feeble 
health  would  allow, — writing  his  notes  in  pencil,  and  trans 
cribing  them,  until  the  Saturday  evening  previous  to  his 
death, — working  thus  with  untiring  industry  to  the  very 
brink  of  the  grave, — and  spending  his  last  strength  in 
smoothing  for  others,  the  path  of  knowledge  that  had  been 
so  delightful  to  him.  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  his  friends  to 


9 

learn,  that  the  Commentary  is  in  so  advanced  a  condition 
as  to  be  available.  It  is  placed  in  competent  hands,  and  will 
be  given  to  the  world  in  due  time. 

On  the  26th  of  October,  less  than  three  weeks  before  his 
death,  he  was  united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Harriet  Sampson, 
of  St.  Catherines,  C.W.,  to  whom  he  had  long  been  affianced. 
It  was  fitting  that,  as  his  wife,  she  should  minister  to  him 
in  his  last  illness,  and  smooth  his  dying  pillow,  and  bear 
his  name  while  mourning  his  untimely  decease. 

In  disposing  of  his  small  property  by  will,  he  displayed 
a  commendable  beneficence.  He  felt  that  he  had  derived 
great  benefit  from  the  use  of  a  public  library  in  his  native 
town,  which  had  subsequently  become  so  much  reduced, 
as  to  receive  but  little  attention  from  the  public.  Anxious 
that  others  should  enjoy  the  same  advantages,  which  he 
had  prized  so  highly,  he  bequeathed  one  hundred  dollars  to 
establish  such  a  library,  on  condition  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Cornwall  should  increase  the  sum  to  four  hundred.  A 
well  selected  library  of  nearly  eight  hundred  volumes,  called 
the  Lane  library,  already  open  to  the  public,  is  one  of  the 
noblest  monuments  to  his  memory.  He  also  remembered 
in  his  bequests  the  library  ©f  his  Alma  Mater,  the  American 
Board,  and  the  American  Tract  Society  at  Boston. 

If  we  regard  the  ripeness  of  his  intellect,  and  the  com 
pleteness  of  his  character,  the  life  of  Gilbert  C.  Lane  was 
not  short.  'T  was  full — 't  was  complete.  Life  should  not 
be  measured  by  years  alone.  He  accomplished  the  great 
ends  of  existence.  He  learned  to  put  his  trust  in  Heaven, 
and  to  live  a  life  of  industry,  patience  and  resignation. 
How  many  keep  on  till  they  are  gray  with  years,  without 
learning  these  great  lessons,  or  leaving  behind  them  so 
precious  an  example  !  Can  it  be  that  a  life  so  calm,  so  la 
borious,  so  heaven-trusting,  was  lived  in  vain  ? 

He  died  in  the  morning  of  November  10th,  1858,  aged  30 

2 


10 

years.  His  last  hours  were  perfect  peace ;  his  hopes  of  im 
mortal  life,  bright  and  joyous  to  the  end.  There  was  nothing 
saddening  in  such  a  death-bed  scene,  except  the  thought  that 
he  was  so  soon  to  leave  us.  "  God  has  not  forsaken  me," 
said  he  but  a  few  hours  previous  to  his  death,  and  soon  after 
repeated,  "  0  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  0  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory  ?"  Thus  he  passed  away  ;  his  death  itself,  so 
calm,  so  peaceful,  so  full  of  God's  sustaining  power,  is  a 
precious  memory  to  us  that  remain.  No  dead  drag  of  the 
flesh  shall  longer  weigh  him  down.  He  sleeps  in  the  grave 
yard  near  the  home  of  his  youth.  The  howling  winds 
sweep  over  his  narrow  bed,  but  they  cannot  disturb  his  rest. 
Days,  months,  years  and  ages  will  circle  away,  but  we  shall 
see  him  never  again.  Yet  there  are  hearts  that  cannot  for 
get  him,  that  will  not  cease  to  love  him  until  they,  too, 
shall  lie  low  beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley. 


EULOGY. 


Extract  from  the  closing  address  to  the  graduating  class  of  Middlebuiy 
College,  in  the  Baccalaureate  discourse  of  the  President,  Rev.  B.  LABABKE, 
D.  D.,  August  7, 1859. 

"  Among  those  who  six  years  ago  to-day  occupied  the 
places  in  which  you  now  stand,  was  a  tall,  pale  youth, 
whom  disease  seemed  to  have  marked  for  an  early  victim. 
During  his  residence  with  us,  he  had  not  only  earned  a  high 
reputation  as  a  scholar,  and  secured  the  respect  and  aflec- 
tion  of  his  instructors,  and  of  his  associates  in  study,  but  he 
had  learned  to  live  for  a  high  and  holy  purpose,  and  to  wait 
with  Christian  patience  and  fortitude,  the  slow  but  certain 
progress  of  that  insidious  disease,  which  bears  to  an  early 
grave  so  many  of  our  promising  youth.  On  your  introduction 
to  college  life,  that  young  man  became  your  tutor.  With 
what  kindness  of  heart  and  critical  ability  he  discharged  the 
duties  of  his  official  station,  you  have  not  forgotten. 
Though  failing  health  soon  compelled  him  to  retire  from  the 
chair  of  instruction,  he  could  not  abandon  his  favorite  pur 
suits.  Disease  and  love  of  study  seemed  to  contend  for  the 
mastery.  Under  such  embarrassments,  and  in  the  face  of 
such  a  foe,  he  made  attainments  in  knowledge,  equalled  by 
few  of  his  years,  who  are  blessed  with  perfect  health.  The 


12 

fatal  star,  prefixed  to  his  name  in  our  forth-coming  Trien 
nial  Catalogue,  will  furnish  but  too  certain  proof,  to  his  dis 
tant  class-mates  and  friends,  that  disease  has  triumphed. 
It  was  your  melancholy  privilege  a  few  months  since,  to 
pay  your  last  respect  to  that  instructor  by  following  his  re 
mains  to  their  final  resting  place  on  earth. 

We  learn  that  within  a  few  hours  of  his  decease,  he  was 
industriously  engaged  in  completing  that  learned  commen 
tary  upon  a  Greek  classic,  which  will  place  his  name  among 
the  scholars  of  our  country.  Here  was  the  true  culture — 
literary  taste,  disciplined  intellect,  and  large  acquisitions  in 
knowledge,  yet  all  held  in  subjection  to  the  duties  and  de 
mands  of  his  higher  spiritual  nature. 

Thus,  with  his  mind  strong  and  active,  his  faith  calm  and 
steady,  his  Christian  hope  bright  and  cheerful,  he  bade  fare 
well  to  his  frail  tenement  of  clay,  and  soared  on  angel's 
wings  to  fairer  worlds  above. 

Young  gentlemen,  let  me  commend  to  your  affectionate 
remembrance,  and  your  careful  imitation,  the  literary  in 
dustry,  the  patient  resignation,  and  the  Christian  fidelity 
of  your  youthful  instructor,  GILBERT  C.  LANE." 


THE   JOY    OF    GKRIEF. 

When  Autumn's  sun,  his  summer  glory  dimmed, 
Hides  in  the  west  his  mildly  parting  beams, 
And  twilight  fans  her  sacred  censor,  trimmed 
With  radiance  borrowed  from  the  land  of  dreams  ; 
Raptured  we  gaze,  where  faint  and  fainter  gleams 
The  crimson-tinted  cloud — stretched  fis>  far  away, — 
Gaze  on  the  misty  hills,  with  eye  that  deems 
More  lovely  than  the  azure-vaulted  day, 
Those  hues  that  sadden  thought  while  fading  into  grey. 

And  there  are  hours  impassioned  spirits  feel, 
An  Autumn  with  its  sear  and  falling  leaf, 
An  evening  twilight  when  we  love  to  steal 
Far  from  the  world  and  learn  the  joy  of  grief; 
When  loved  ones  garnered  like  the  unripe  sheaf, 
We  mourn,  or  weep  in  sympathy  with  such 
As  find  in  tears  thus  shed  some  sweet  relief — 
Such  thoughts  are  chastening  to  the  heart,  and  touch 
A  chord  that  needs  to  thrill,  but  must  not  thrill  too  much. 

Many  life's  changes  that  thus  wake  within 
A  tender  yet  sweet  melancholy,  when 
There  are  soft  whisperings  of  what  hath  been 
And  is  not,  and  the  spirit's  inner  ken 


14 

Is  quickened,  and  we  shun  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Mid  scenes  secluded  stray,  that  strangely  claim 
A  kindred  with  one's  thoughts — some  lonely  glen, 
And  carve  on  rock  or  ancient  tree  some  name 
That  in  our  heart  is  shrined  and  will  be  in  the  same. 

While  it  doth  seem  a  conscious  spirit  grieves 
In  the  low  murmuring  streamlet,  as  in  bed 
Of  mossy  brink  it  trickles, — in  the  leaves 
The  year  has  thinned, — beneath  stray  sumbeams  shed 
Soft  radiance  that  but  flickers  and  is  fled ; 
As  mid  the  shadows  of  life's  checkered  doom, 
Patches  of  sun-light  play  beneath  our  tread, 
Nor  yet  the  shaded  pathway  to  the  tomb 
Is  all  unstrewed  with  flowers  nor  sunless  in  its  gloom. 

Oft  pause  we  mid  life's  weary  pilgrimage  ; 
Recall  with  fond  regret  some  childhood  scene, 
And  deem  those  blooming  years  one  golden  age, 
When  our  young  life  was  fresh  as  meadows  green 
After  spring  showers, — nor  faded  yet  I  ween, 
For  the  dim  veil  of  years,  like  evening  cloud, 
That  softens,  not  obscures  the  moon's  calm  sheen, 
Hides  not  those  visions  that  the  distance  crowd, — 
As  day  shines  lovelier  through  a  morning's  vapory  shroud. 

'Tis  thus  the  mind  recalls  its  storied  past, 
Unrolls  the  record  of  its  dawning  years, 
Views  not  unmoved  the  mellowing  radiance  cast, 
When  o'er  its  Orient  the  fair  morn  appears  ; 
Morn  of  mixed  joys  and  griefs,  smiles  drying  tears, 
Like  April  shower,  ere  whose  last  drops  are  spent 
The  slanting  ray  streams  through,  and  the  cloud  veers, 
And  breaks  o'er  head  a  deep  cerulean  rent, 
Till  on  the  quickened  earth  a  day  of  peace  is  bent. 


15 

'Tis  thus  the  way-worn  wanderer,  to  whose  view 
Strange  climes  have  grown  familiar  as  he  strayed. 
Mid  scenes  remote  from  those  his  childhood  knew  ; 
Who  much  of  men  has  seen,  and  much  surveyed 
Of  those  sublimer  works  than  man  has  made  ; 
And  has  grown  weary  and  his  heart's  pulse  slow, — 
Once  more  within  his  own  sweet  native  glade, 
Feels  a  new  rapture  in  his  bosom  glow, 
And  tears  unbidden  start  that  long  had  ceased  to  flow. 

There  stands  his  home, — still  mark  the  grassy  way 
Ton  clustering  shade  and  ruined  garden  wall, 
And  the  green  lawn,  where  but  yesterday 
He  strung  the  bow  and  sped  the  bounding  ball. 
Ah !  tender  memories  do  these  scenes  recall, 
Of  loved  ones  gathered  round  at  even  tide, 
The  endearing  look  and  way  that  pleased  in  all, 
And  the  sweet  artless  smile  of  her  that  died — 
Alas,  that  hours  and  joys  like  these  cannot  abide  ! 

O'er  those  paternal  acres,  once  the  range 
Of  many  a  childhood  sport,  now  doth  he  turn 
A  lingering  footstep,  sadly  mark  each  change 
That  time  for  him  on  reckless  wing  has  borne, — 
So  each  improvement  in  the  homestead  mourn  ; 
Mourn  that  the  straggling  fence  is  all  effaced, 
And  the  familiar  aspect  it  had  worn, 
As  oft  those  paths  which  yet  a  boy  he  traced, 
Yet  joys  to  see  not  all  an  unremembered  waste. 

'Twas  yon  green  slope  close  nestled  from  the  breeze 
Where  earliest  tripped  the  smiling  vernal  maid, 
While  with  soft  airs  that  lingered  'mid  the  trees 
Afar  she  wooed  him  down  yon  forest  glade, 
A  rugged  way  that  led  through  birchen  shade, 


16 

By  the  deep  rocky  glen  and  lonely  grot, 
And  where  the  brook  leaped  down — a  wild  cascade, 
Or  suddenly  came  out  on  some  green  plot, 
Sleeping  like  infant  face  cradled  in  wild-wood  cot. 

V 

These  be  the  haunts  that  charmed  him  when  a  child, 
And  though  not  now  as  then  within  him  swell 
Hopes  unsubdued,  or  fancies  free  and  wild, 
Though  scarce  a  spot  but  mournfully  does  tell 
Some  story  of  past  joys,  and  the  deep  knell 
That  seems  to  linger  on  each  passing  gale, 
But  wakes  regret  for  some  once  loved  so  well, 
Yet  are  these  memories  sweet  that  fill  the  vale 
Like  far  off  dying  strains  or  half  remembered  tale. 

And  'twere  a  pleasing  thought,  life's  labor  done, 
In  these  calm  shades  to  win  some  sweet  repose, 
Here  let  the  twilight  of  his  years  steal  on, 
While  peacefully  he  waits,  nor  dreads  the  close. 
Fond  memory,  soother  of  his  pains  and  woes, 
And  hope — to  light  where  else  were  dark  and  dim, — 
Then  'twould  be  sweet,  at  last,  to  sleep  by  those, 
Who  here  in  closest  ties  were  linked  with  him, 
Might  there  but  be  vouchsafed  a  waking  too  with  them . 

The  world  is  full  of  death  and  sad  decay  ; 
The  flower  that  looked  so  sweetly  forth  at  morn, 
Ere  noon  is  withered, — fields  in  spring  array, 
Or  waving  in  the  full  year's  ripening  corn, 
Like  head  of  victim  that  they  first  adorn, 
Haste  to  their  doom, — the  oak  that  might  recall 
Fierce  storms  of  centuries — and  ne'er  uptorn — 
Lies  low  at  last, — and  death  creeps  on  us  all, 
The  knell  salutes  our  ears,  our  eyes  the  solemn  fall. 


17 

Yet  there  are  moments  when  'twere  sweet  to  stray, 
Where  waning  nature  mourns  her  glories  fled  ; 
When  woodlands  wear  their  coloring  of  decay, 
Or  wide  around  their  leafy  honors  spread, 
And  e'en  the  mould  that  yields  beneath  my  tread 
Hath  graven  on  it  Death's  eternal  law  ; — 
So  there's  a  converse  with  a  nobler  dead, 
When  earth  and  all  its  busy  scenes  withdraw, 
And  thoughts  too  deep  for  speech,  a  rapture  and  an  awe 

Do  fill  the  soul, — a  spirit  hath  left  its  clay, 
Departed  from  that  form  its  living  bloom, 
While  fond  affection  claims  yet  one  brief  day 
Ere  dust  with  dust  is  mingled  in  the  tomb  ; 
A  solemn  stillness  fills  the  curtained  room, 
Save  from  the  farewells  that  were  said,  you  deem 
Comes  a  faint  echo  still,  for  'mid  the  gloom 
Of  that  dark  hour  Hope  glanced  a  cheering  beam, 
And  death's  dim  portals  lit  with  heavenly  glory  seem. 

Thus  when  the  brow  of  night  is  veiled  in  gloom, 
And  twilight's  lessening  streak  fades  on  the  hill, 
And  lost  in  thickening  shade  the  landscape's  bloom, 
And  the  loud  hum  of  men  is  hushed — and  chill 
The  stagnant  night  air  sleeps,  and  all  is  still, 
Then  stars  appear,  and  twinkling  far  away 
Beyond  this  sphere,  that  mists  and  storm-clouds  fill, 
Beckon  lone  spirits  silently,  and  say, 
"  Come  up  and  leave  those  realms  of  mingled  night  and 
day." 

The  grave  where  loved  ones  sleep  !     Ah !  'tis  a  spot 
Where  I  do  love  to  linger,  though  it  be 
With  saddened  and  with  solemn  feeling,  not 
Of  earth  the  visions  that  our  spirits  see, — 
Angels  do  hover  there,  invisibly 


18 

To  others,  and  do  chant  a  mellow  hymn 
Unheard  by  him  who  hath  not  grieved  like  me  ; 
And  they  do  shed  around  me  beams,  though  dim, 
Of  radiance  that  is  love  ;  Death  is  no  longer  grim. 

Around  the  grave  dwells  what  mysterious  power 
To  touch  the  heart  and  bid  the  tear-drop  rise  ! 
Here  comes  to  muse,  at  twilight's  pensive  hour, 
The  love-lorn  youth  who  languishingly  sighs, 
And  drops  the  myrtle  where  Narcissa  lies  : 
Here  the  fond  mother,  too,  is  often  seen 
To  plant  the  flower  that  early  blooms  and  dies, 
And  he  who  stands  in  reverential  mien 
Where  o'er  ancestral  dust  the  grass  waves  long  and  green. 

Oh !  'twere  a  grief  that  few  can  ever  feel, 
Thus  to  survive  all  that  was  held  most  dear, — 
To  be  a  stricken  branch,  that  the  rude  steel 
Has  reft  of  all  its  boughs  ; — and  let  the  tear 
Fall  unrebuked  ; — yet  I  would  rather  'twere 
Thus  meted  out  to  me,  than  ne'er  have  felt 
Those  purest  of  Heaven's  joys  foretasted  here, 
Of  kindred  spirits  round  Love's  altar  knelt, 
E'en  though  that  heart-shrine  now  be  lonely  where  they 
dwelt. 

For  ties  like  these  seem  holy  then,  and  oft 
In  closer,  tenderer  folds  are  round  us  cast ; 
And  memory  still,  with  lingering  steps  and  soft, 
Fain  would  retrace  that  lovelier,  brighter  past ; 
And  peace  flows  deep — the  stricken  heart,  o'ercast 
As  with  the  shades  of  evening,  gently  thrills, 
And  breathes  ^Eolian  music  on  the  blast ; 
While  those  calm  depths,  where  pensive  sorrow  stills 
Each  rising  wave,  the  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  fills. 


19 


THE    PLEASURES    OF   ASSOCIATION. 

Spoken  by  appointment  at  a  public  debate  of  the  Philomathesian 
Society,  held  in  the  College  Chapel  on  the  eve  of  Nov.  10, 1852. 

When  he  who  wandering  from  his  native  glade, 
In  distant  climes,  o'er  seas  and  realms  has  strayed ; 
Enriched  his  mind  with  images  that  rise 
'Neath  tropic  suns,  or  Oriental  skies  ; 
Traced  his  lone  way  'mid  Alpine  heights  sublime, 
And  mused  with  monuments  of  ancient  time  ; 
Perceived  new  beauties  on  each  winding  shore, 
And  filled  his  soul  with  Ocean's  awful  roar, — 
Keturns  once  more  to  spend  life's  evening  grey, 
Where  first  had  dawned  the  morning  of  his  day  ; 
Then  rise  what  new  emotions  in  his  heart, 
And  raptures  which  no  foreign  scene  could  start ! 
Then  as  he  mounts  the  last  green  hillock's  side, 
That  overlooks  the  hamlet  of  his  pride  ; 
And  first,  since  long,  long  years  that  scene  he  views, 
Soft  tinged  in  recollection's  fondest  hues  ; 
How  pleased  he  lingers,  while  his  eye  doth  roam 
O'er  the  fair  spot  he  calls  his  boyhood  home  ! 
Yon  cottage  sleeping  in  the  quiet  shade, 
By  arching  elms  in  Autumn  foliage  made  ; — 
There  erst  his  pilgrimage  of  life  began, 
There  smoothly  childhood's  crystal  current  ran. 
The  grassy  lawn,  the  woodbine  o'er  the  door, 
Where  oft  he  watched  the  hum'bird's  flight  of  yore, — 
Scarce  changed,  he  fancies,  since  when  last  he  heard, 
Beneath  that  vine,  his  mother's  parting  word, 
And  felt  the  farewell  kiss  of  those  most  loved— 
These  wake  a  chord  that  scarce  since  then  had  moved. 
Yon  hill-side  turned  the  noontide  ray  to  meet, 


20 

Where  he  had  learned  Spring's  earliest  steps  to  greet, 

Where  basking  in  the  warmest  beams  of  May, 

He  loved  to  trace  the  mimic  flock  at  play  ; 

The  wooded  glen,  beneath  whose  tangled  shade 

He  culled  wild  flowers  and  watched  the  rude  cascade ; 

Where  many  a  winding  pathway  knew  his  tread, 

And  thick  inwoven  boughs  waved  o'er  his  head  ; 

Yon  sacred  house  of  prayer,  where  early  trained, 

From  noisy  mirth  and  idle  word  restrained, 

His  footsteps  learned  each  Sabbath  morn  to  stray, 

And  his  young  heart  to  find  the  heavenly  way  ; — 

Such  scenes  he  views,  and  as  declining  day 

Sheds  his  last  beams  o'er  all,  then  sinks  away  ; 

He  feels  that  here,  beneath  his  native  sky, 

'Twere  sweet  to  live,  and  would  be  sweet  to  die. 

And.  in  yon  churchyard  where  his  fathers  sleep, 

There  he  would  rest,  that  friends  might  o'er  him  weep. 

Oh  !  never  may  be  mine  the  heart  that  feels 
No  thrill  of  joy  at  memory's  fond  appeals  ! 
Nor  mine  the  eye  that  views  unmoved  those  dyes, 
That  tinge  the  dawning  of  life's  eastern  skies  ! 
For  I  do  love  to  linger  'round  each  place, 
Where  childhood's  fleeting  footsteps  I  may  trace, 
There  cherish  fond  remembrance  of  the  past, 
Of  sunny  days  that  were  too  bright  to  last. 
These  scenes  the  mind's  historic  leaves  unroll, 
And  wake  the  finer  chords  that  thrill  the  soul. 

Say  what  can  give  these  scenes  their  magic  spell, 

The  heart's  emotions  to  arouse  or  quell  ? 

'Tis  the  same  cause  that  makes  the  scholar's  heart, 

'Mid  the  decaying  monuments  of  art 

Of  Greece  or  Rome,  beat  quicker,  as  he  stands 

'Neath  broken  arches  reared  by  mouldering  hands ; 

Or  muses  pensive,  where,  Oh  I  sacred  dust ! 


21 

Thy  slumbering  atoms  hold  a  cherished  trust. 
Set  is  that  glory,  whose  resplendent  beam 
Once  lighted  Kome  ;  yet  still  a  softened  gleam, 
As  of  an  Autumn  twilight,  settles  o'er 
Each  ruined  tower,  and  floats  along  the  shore 
Of  classic  Tiber,  o'er  whose  yellow  waves 
Once  ruled  Kome's  freemen,  but  now  rule  her  slaves  ; 
And  over  her  seven  hills  now  seems  to  cast 
A  dim  reflection  of  her  glorious  past. 

"  Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain," 
Each  'object  viewed  calls  up  a  waiting  train  ; 
Earth  is  re-peopled  from  the  grave  of  time, 
The  heavens  reflect  a  picturing  sublime. 

Behold  yon  star,  that  lights  our  western  sky, 
Arcturus,  with  his  sons  ;   need  I  ask  why 
I  love  to  look  upon  it  ?     I  do  think 
Of  that  sublime  exordium  which  doth  link 
That  star  with  God.     And  joyful  I  behold 
Its  gentle  ray,  attesting,  as  of  old, 
The  power  of  Him  who,  'neath  the  dome  of  night, 
Has  hung  this  censor  filled  with  golden  light. 
And  as  I  dwell  upon  its  twinkling  beam, 
Imagination  kindles,  and  I  seem 
To  see  the  Idumaean  patriarch, 
Sitting  amidst  his  sorrows,  as  a  mark 
For  Satan's  arrows  ;  yet  submissive  bent 
Before  his  Maker's  mighty  argument. 

The  Pleiades  attract  my  gaze  the  more, 
As  the  seven  sisters  whom  the  sea-nymph  bore. 
Yet  one,  the  fair  Electra,  left  the  skies, 
And  still  in  secret  o'er  her  Ilium  sighs ; 
Or,  as  some  say,  'twas  Merope  who  fled, 
Ingloriously  a  mortal  spouse  to  wed  ; 
And  I  do  sometimes  fancy  how,  e'en  yet, 


22 

They  mourn  their  sister  star  forever  set. 

Fair  Venus,  rising  in  her  morning  beams, 
To  me  looks  ten-fold  fairer,  when  she  seems 
Jove's  sea-born  daughter.     And  as  still  I  gaze, 
I  fondly 'greet  each  fancy  as  it  plays. 
I  seem  to  see  her  rising  from  the  foam- 
Wring  her  fair  locks,  and  own  her  peerless  bloom  ; 
Then  wafted  o'er  the  blue  ^Egean  brine, 
In  Cythera's  isle  erect  her  sacred  shrine. 
;Tis  said  that,  exiled  from  her  Eden  bowers, 
Fair  Eve,  regretful,  plucked  a  tuft  of  flowers— 
Which,  as  its  fading  colors  caught  her  gaze, 
Might  wake  the  memory  of  those  happier  days 
When  her  pure  heart  had  not  yet  learned  to  sin, 
And  human  care  found  no  abode  within. 

We,  too,  have  had  our  Eden,  'neath  whose  shade 
Our  childhood  sported,  and  our  young  feet  strayed  ; 
And  many  a  flower  that  bloomed  those  bowers  among, 
Thence  plucked,  in  memory's  hallowed  shrine  is  hung. 
And  though  that  Eden  we  may  walk  no  more, 
Nor  breathe  1he  fragrance  that  its  breezes  bore  ; 
Yet  these  fond  tokens,  faded  though  their  hue, 
Those  happier  days  and  brighter  scenes  renew ; 
And  thus  a  hallowed  influence  still  impart, 
To  soothe  the  passions,  and  refine  the  heart. 


THE    ERLKING.* 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   GCETIIE. 

Who  rideth  so  late,  'mid  the  night-wind  wild  ? 
The  father  it  is,  with  his  infant  child ; 
Around  his  frail  form,  with  encircling  arm, 
He  holds  him  secure,  and  he  keeps  him  warm. 

"  My  son,  why  hidest  so  closely  thy  face  ? — " 
"  0,  father,  the  Erlking  is  coming  apace ; 
The  Erlking,  with  crown  and  with  fairy  train." 
"  My  son,  it  is  naught  but  the  mist  on  the  plain." 

"  Come,  loveliest  child,  come  wander  with  me, 
And  beautiful  games  I  will  play  with  thee ; 
I'll  show  to  thee  many  a  tinted  flower, 
And  golden  robes  in  my  mother's  bower." 

"  My  father,  my  father,  and  hearest  thou  not 

The  whispering  promise  the  Erlking  has  brought? — " 

"  Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  my  darling  child  ! 

'Tis  the  wind  'mong  the  leaves  that  is  rustling  so  wild." 

"  Wilt  go  and  be  mine,  my  fine  little  boy  ? 

My  daughters  so  fair  will  attend  thee  with  joy  ; 

My  daughters  so  fair,  in  the  nightly  step, 

With  singing  and  dancing  will  soothe  thee  to  sleep." 

"  My  father,  my  father,  and  seest  thou  not 
The  Erlking's  daughters,  yon  dusky  spot  ?" — 
"  My  son,  my  son,  I  see  it,  'tis  true, 
The  time-beaten  willows  obscure  to  the  view." 


*  A  mischievous  and  malignant  being  in  ancient  German  mythology. 


"  I  love  thee,  and  though  thou'rt  unwilling  to  come, 
So  charmed  by  thy  beanty,  I'll  hurry  thee  home." — 
"  My  father,  my  father,  now  seizes  he  me  ; 
The  Erlking  will  snatch  me,  0,  father,  from  thee  1" 

The  shuddering  father  rode  swiftly  and  wild, 
He  pressed  to  his  bosom  his  moaning  child  ; 
He  reaches  the  court-yard,  alights  from  his  steed, — 
His  child  in  his  arms  lay  expiring  indeed. 


A    DAY    OF    LEISURE. 

The  morning  is  dewy  and  bright, 

Awake  at  the  Lark's  early  call ! 
The  sun,  with  his  glorious  light, 

Enlivens  and  vivifies  all. 
A  day  of  glad  leisure  is  ours, 

A  day  free  from  business  and  care  ; 
0  where  shall  we  spend  the  sweet  hours, 

The  most  of  enjoyment  to  share  ? 

In  yon  gorgeous  mansion  a  band 

Of  youths  their  carousal  begin  ; 
Without  all  is  costly  and  grand, 

And  all  is  gay  pleasure  within  ; 
For  art  they  with  nature  combine, 

The  joys  of  the  day  to  enhance  ; 
Joy  sparkles  and  glows  in  the  wine. 

Joy  gaily  exults  in  the  dance. 


25 

The  city  presents  to  our  view 

Its  splendor  and  business  and  life, 
Where  thousands  and  thousands  pursue 

Wealth,  pleasure,—how  eager  the  strife  ! 
And  palaces  numberless  rise, 

To  show  the  result  of  the  chase  ; 
And  temples  point  up  to  the  skies, 

The  scene  so  magnific  to  grace. 

But  thither  we  will  not  away  ;— 

For  neither  the  party  nor  town, 
On  such  a  most  glorious  day, 

Our  highest  enjoyment  could  crown  ; 
Then  let  us  through  field,  wood  and  grove, 

Our  way  pursue  lightsomely  thus, 
And  let  the  vast  concave  above 

Alone  overcanopy  us. 

Our  pathway  with  flowers  is  lined, 

Of  rich  and  most  delicate  dyes  ; 
Their  breathings  with  dew-drops  combined, 

How  sweetly  delicious  they  rise  ! 
And  now,  'neath  the  pine  and  the  oak, 

Huge  giants  of  Nature,  we  stride  ; 
They  stand  unsubdued  by  the  stroke 

Time,  age  upon  age,  has  applied. 

There  in  the  cool  grove  we  will  rest, 

Beside  the  low-murmuring  brook, 
View  Nature  in  loveliness  drest, 

And  read  one  bright  page  from  her  book ; 
Here,  here  with  the  birds  and  the  flowers, 

With  everything  lovely  and  fair, 
0  here  will  we  spend  the  sweet  hours, 

Hours  free  from  all  trouble  and  care. 

4, 


26 
THE  VIOLET   BLUE. 

There's  a  sweet  little  spot  I  delight  to  frequent, 

All  dotted  with  flowers  so  fair, 
That  it  seems  a  bright  picture  from  Paradise  sent, 

Disclosing  the  loveliness  there. 
The  lily  resplendent,  the  rose  with  its  bloom, 

The  dahlia,  the  amaranth's  form, 
The  tulip,  the  pink,  and  the  lilac's  perfume, 

Unite  to  embellish  and  charm  : 
But  loveliest  to  me  is  the  violet  blue, 

Retiringly  hid  from  the  rude,  careless  view. 

And  multitudes  tlirong,  of  the  young  and  the  gay, 

To  visit  the  glorious  spot ; 
Enticed  by  its  charms,  the  enchanted  delay, 

So  powerful  the  work  that  is  wrought. 
Enough  at  the  shrine  of  the  lilly  bow  low, 

So  splendidly  rearing  its  head  ; 
Enough  with  delight,  with  alarcity  go, 

To  recline  in  the  roseate  bed  : 
But  nobody  thinks  of  the  violet  blue, 

So  modestly,  smilingly  hid  from  the  view. 

And  let  them  admire,  and  admiringly  gaze, 

Let  them  pluck,  if  they  will,  and  enjoy  ; 
I  care  not ;  their  beauty,  their  splendor  repays 

Not  the  homage  that  I  would  employ. 
The  lilac,  rose,  dahlia,  the  lilly  their  queen, 

Too  proudly,  too  haughtily  they 
Bear  up  their  gay  blossoms  as  if  to  be  seen, 

So  seemingly  made  for  display. 
But  I  love  to  contemplate  the  violet  blue, 

So  modestly  hid  from  the  rude  careless  view. 


27 
SPRING. 

Lo  !  Phoebus  in  his  golden  car, 
Comes  slowly  mounting  from  afar, 
And  at  each  circling  course  we  view, 
Mounts  higher  in  the  vault  of  blue ; 
While  with  his  genial  influence  shed, 
On  regions,  slumbering  and  dead, 
He  bids  old  Boreas  cease  to  blow, 
And  drives  him  o'er  the  yielding  snow. 
And  thus,  with  summoned  breeze  and  blast, 
Begins  his  conquering  work  at  last. 

The  wide-spread  snow  his  word  fulfills, 
And  pours  in  streamlets  from  the  hills ; 
Commingling  streamlets  merry  flow, 
Now  noisily,  now  murmuring  low, 
Now  leaping  o'er  the  rude  cascade, 
Now  sheeting  wide  the  level  mead  ; 
While  the  swelled  river,  in  its  course, 
Bears  on  the  mighty  waters'  force. 
Thus  Nature,  stript  her  shroud  of  snow, 
Breaks  to  new  life  her  long  repose  ; 
And  cheery  Spring,  with  all  her  train 
Of  health  and  joys,  is  ours  again. 
Champlain,  the  loveliest  of  Lakes, 
From  three  months'  winter  sleep  awakes, 
Spurns,  with  a  deep  re-echoing  sound, 
The  dreary  chain  that  heldjier  bound  ; 
And  now  her  waves,  ice-bound  before, 
Can  leap  and  frolic  on  the  shore — 
Can  lightly  toss,  as  if  in  sport, 
The  bark  that  dares  to  leave  the  port— 
Or  when  tfie  wind  fatigued  at  play, 
Leaves  Sol  alone  to  rule  the  day, 


28 

Her  bosom  then,  though  not  compressed 
With  icy  bond,  can  calmly  rest, 
Reflecting,  as  it  smoothly  lies, 
The  inverted  image  of  the  skies. 

And  now  the  fields,  not  long  ago 
A  dreary  waste,  and  spread  with  snow — 
Now  clad  in  livery  of  green, 
Which  mantles  o'er  the  enlivening  scene, 
The  tenants  of  the  folds  invite 
To  catch  the  breeze  and  hail  the  light, 
And  with  free  limbs  arid  bleating  voice, 
In  former  liberty  rejoice. 

Now  spread  they  o'er  the  verdant  swell, 
Now  roam  the  velvet-cushioned  dell, 
Now  crop  the  grass,  now  form  a  ring 
To  sip  the  crystals  of  the  spring : 
While  their  new  offspring  leap  away, 
In  separate  numbers  to  display ; 
In  spotless  glee  to  try  the  chase, 
And  frolic  o'er  the  sunny  place ; 
Then,  circling  round  the  barren  rock, 
Dances  and  leaps  the  mimic  flock. 

Then  Sylva,  too,  who  still  retains, 
O'er  rugged  hills,  through  winding  plains, 
A  remnant  of  the  rule  she  bore, 
Wildly  and  lone,  in  days  of  yore ; 
She,  whose  rude  form  and  somber  hue, 
Have  served  thus  long  to  mar  the  view, 
Calls  up  her  latent  power,  and  weaves 
A  mantle  of  the  verdant  leaves, 
And  joins  the  choir  and  leads  the  song, 
Which  field  and  lake  and  air  prolong. 

The  branching  limb  and  craggy  bough, 
Clad  in  a  robe  luxuriant  now, 


29 


Can  wave  with  grace  and  bend  with  ease 
Before  the  gentle  southern  breeze- 
Can  send  a  deep  and  murmuring  roar, 
When  stronger  gales  are  sweeping  o'er  ; 
Or,  as  the  breezes  die  away, 
List  to  the  birdlet's  warbled  lay  ; 
While  distant  waterfalls  prolong, 
Vary,  and  melodize  the  song. 

All  nature,  freed  the  tyrant's  hand, 
Obeys  the  genial  Spring's  command, 
And  feels  with  every  living  thing 
The  life  and  cheerfulness  of  Spring  ; 
While  from  each  leaf  and  opening  flower, 
That  glistens  in  the  morning  shower, 
From  all  that  numerous  living  train, 
That  wings  the  air  or  roams  the  plain, 
Ascends  on  high,  in  tuneful  lays, 
The  grateful  tribute  of  their  praise. 


30 
THE    TWO    RAIN    DROPS. 

Two  crystalline  drops  were  discharged  from'  a  cloud, 

Which  passing  above  me  was  rumbling  aloud, 

But  ling'ring  awhile  in  their  downward  career, 

Each  fixed  (so  I  feign,)  on  an  object  of  care. 

Then  drawn  to  the  earth  by  an  invisible  power, 

They  swiftly  came  down  with  the  rest  of  the  shower ; 

Each  drop  all  intent  its  choice  plan  to  pursue, 

They  parted  and  quickly  were  lost  to  the  view ; 

The  one,  with  great  purpose  of  glory  and  fame, 

With  lofty  intention  of  gaining  a  name, 

Directing  its  course  to  the  dark-rolling  brine, 

Resolved  to  engulf  it,  its  nature  refine  ; 

And  swelling  its  volume,  to  cause  it  to  sweep, 

With  fury  resistless,  o'er  mountain  and  deep. 

But  alas,  for  an  airy  built  castle,  so  tall, 

Foundationless  reared,  but  to  totter  and  fall ! 

This  vain-glorious  drop,  puffed  so  largely  with  pride, 

Now  reached  the  black  brine  near  the  continent's  side  ; 

At  the  moment,  its  purpose  it  thought  was  attained, 

The  object  of  all  its  solicitude  gained, 

'Twas  doomed  in  Oblivion's  dark  gulf  to  be  sunk, 

Like  others  who  have  from  Ambition's  cup  drunk. 

The  billowy  ocean  rolled  on  as  before, 

And  the  lofty  aspirant  was  heard  of  no  more. 

Not  so  with  the  other,  more  humble,  but  wise, 
It  fell  on  an  object  of  proportionate  size  ; 
Content  with  accomplishing  a  little  of  good, 
It  kissed,  with  a  spatter,  an  opening  rose-bud  : 
The  bud,  being  thirsty  and  needing  more  juice, 
Did  quickly  absorb  it  for  its  separate  use ; 
Thus  nourished,  its  beauty  it  unfolded  to  view, 
All  wet  with  the  shower,  and  of  roseate  hue  ; 


31 

And  when  the  bright  sun  came,  inviting  me  forth, 

To  view  the  sweet  flowers  which  embellished  the  earth, 

This  newly  blown  rose  attracted  my  eye, 

As  a  fragrant  perfume  it  exhaled  to  the  sky, 

I  blessed  the  pure  drop  which  unfolded  the  flower, 

And  thought  with  surprise  of  its  marvelous  power. 

Thus  'tis  with  mankind,  like  the  silly  rain  drop, 
Some  at  nothing  short  of  great  glory  will  stop, 
Spurred  on  by  Ambition,  they  strive  to  perform 
Such  deeds  as  would  tire  an  Herculean  arm : 
But  spite  of  their  efforts,  gigantic  and  vast, 
They  sink  down  unknown  and  forgotten  at  last. 
Another,  more  humble,  yet  wiser  by  far, 
Since  all  can't  be  suns,  is  content  as  a  star  ; — 
Since  like  rain  drops  he  cannot  huge  continents  flood, 
Yet,  as  rain  drops  so  little  can  open  a  bud, 
He  wisely  concludes  he  will  act  in  a  sphere 
Commensurate  with  his  own  littleness  here, 
And  thus  like  the  drop  such  often  acquire 
When  least  'tis  expected,  a  glory  far  higher 
Than  had,  in  the  highest,  and  loftiest  flight 
Of  fancy,  appeared  to  his  wond'ring  sight. 


\ 


32 


SONG. 

Written  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  of  the  Students  of  Middlebury  College 
to  those  of  the  University  of  Vermont. 

When  cousins  assemble  from  distant  abodes, 
At  some  good  old  aunt's,  for  a  family  meeting, 

Forgetting  the  cares  they  were  wont  to  pursue, 
The  eye,  hand  and  tongue  speak  mutual  greeting. 

So  we,  who  are  students  from  different  halls, 

Released  for  a  time,  academical  labors, 
Have  met  for  a  jubilee,  firmly  resolved 

No  longer  to  be  such  unsociable  neighbors. 

Then  let  us  improve  the  brief  season  before  us, 
From  Senior  to  Freshman  give  pleasure  its  sway, 

The  Senior  come  down  from  his  dignified  station, 
The  Freshman  remember  his  tutor's  away. 

'Tis  a  maxim  so  old  that  we  scarce  dare  dispute  it, 

That  two  of  a  trade  can  never  agree  ; 
Yet  here  'tis  evinced  by  a  practical  method, 

That  students,  at  least,  an  exception  may  be. 


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